


Cheat Day

by peacefrog



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, M/M, Pining, Shower Sex, Spells & Enchantments, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 16:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: He’d told himself he’d never do this kind of magic again. The tall stranger with the strong hands tugged at Quentin’s hair and he thought,Fuck it.Cheat day. He figured he was due.





	Cheat Day

He’d told himself he’d never do this kind of magic again. The tall stranger with the strong hands tugged at Quentin’s hair and he thought, _Fuck it._ Cheat day. He figured he was due.

The stranger was a hedge and reeked of clove cigarettes and the cheap whiskey they’d been drinking at the bar. Quentin hadn’t asked his name and didn’t want to. He backed Quentin up against the door of his apartment and said, “You gonna tell me who you are?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Quentin slurred, his body whiskey-warm. “I wanna take a shower.”

“Oh, you want it slippery?” 

Quentin pushed past him, avoiding his gaze. “I wanna do a spell.”

“Oh, I know all sorts of spells that we can do to make it...” He locked his arm around Quentin’s chest, pressed his lips to Quentin’s ear. “Wet.”

Disgust coiled tightly in Quentin’s belly. He said, “Just take me to the shower,” and slipped out of the stranger’s arms into the dark unknown of the apartment.

The stranger took him by the hand and led him down the hall, clicked on the sickly-yellow bathroom light. They squeezed into the narrow space and the stranger crowded Quentin against the wall. “Take off your clothes,” he purred, pressing his erection roughly into Quentin’s hip.

Quentin turned his face away when the stranger tried to kiss his lips. “You, too,” he mumbled, slipping away from the arms caging him in, shrugging off his jacket, working on the buttons of his shirt with unsteady fingers.

They both stripped bare awkwardly in the cramped space between the sink and the tub, and when they were finished Quentin wasted no time, pressed his hand to the stranger’s chest to begin the enchantment.

“Hey, wait.” He caught Quentin’s wrist and smirked. “What’s the spell?”

“It’s… it’s just a party trick, okay? An illusion. But your skin has to be wet. It’ll be good, okay, and I’m gonna let you fuck me just—” Quentin sighed. “Please.”

“Go on, then,” said the stranger.

Quentin averted his gaze as he finished the enchantment, and the stranger turned on the shower and stepped inside. Quentin shut his eyes, breathed deep, hesitated. His heart fluttered, a beast caught in his chest, and he followed the man whose name he didn’t want inside his head into the unknown behind the curtain.

Quentin opened his eyes. Eliot stood before him, water from the shower spray running down his hair and into his eyes, not a hint of the monstrous thing that had taken him over. Only Eliot, towering and shocking in his beauty.

“Did it work?” The words came from Eliot’s mouth in the stranger’s voice, and Quentin could hardly contain the sounds clawing up from his chest.

Quentin blinked, his eyes damp. “Yeah.” The word came out all broken. He reached out, pressed a hand to Eliot’s chest. 

“Is it what you were hoping for?”

“Can we not talk?” Quentin ran his hand up to curl around Eliot’s neck. “Please. Just kiss me.”

The stranger pulled him in, kissed him roughly with Eliot’s mouth, and it almost felt like home. Almost. Quentin pulled back, touched Eliot’s face, looked deeply into his clear and sparkling eyes. _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._ He repeated the name to himself like a mantra, kissed Eliot’s lips again, licked into his mouth, moaned deeply, threaded his fingers into Eliot’s wet hair.

Quentin wished that they could stay like this forever, but the stranger wearing Eliot’s face took hold of his shoulders, roughly turned him around and pressed his body into the cold tile. “My turn for a spell,” a voice not Eliot’s whispered into Quentin’s ear. And then fingers pressing against Quentin’s hole, and a spell he knew quite well being muttered into his hair.

He and Eliot had used this spell a time or two back in Fillory, though they’d always preferred the old-fashioned way. The way in which Eliot could have him writhing for hours on the bed, begging to be fucked after being worked open slowly, always so slowly. And Eliot relentless, with his mouth and with his fingers. Sometimes Quentin would come just like that.

Quentin gasped, slick in an instant, and two strange fingers pressing inside. A strange voice purring, “Nice and wet,” in a way that made Quentin’s skin crawl.

_Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._ If only he would stop talking, Quentin could maybe believe it. The hands on his hips felt like Eliot’s, just barely, and the tongue licking up the side of his neck might be his, but the cock pressing inside felt all wrong. Not enough to fill him up, but Quentin gritted his teeth and went up on his toes, pushed back hard and pretended this was what he needed.

“You like that?” The strange voice drawled, hips snapping and fingers digging into Quentin’s hips.

“Could you please just shut the fuck up?” Quentin blurted out, burying his face in the crook of his arm. “Just shut the fuck up and fuck me.”

A growl from behind, and fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Teeth finding the flesh of his shoulder. A cock slamming into his body and it was almost, almost almost— _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._ Quentin wanted it to hurt, needed to feel something deeper than the dull throbbing of his own heart. He canted his hips and bit into his own arm and wished for it to never end. Wished for it all to just be over.

The last time he and Eliot had made love when they were very old it was soft and slow, nothing like it had been when they were younger. But Quentin thought of that moment and cried out, took his cock into his hand and stroked himself to the unsteady rhythm of the stranger’s hips. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough without—

The stranger groaned loudly, hips faltering, his breath coming quickly at Quentin’s nape, and it was over. He pulled out of Quentin’s body laughing. “Shit,” he huffed. “Shit, I’m sorry. Do you want me to—”

Quentin turned around, leaned his head back against the tile, body half in and half out of the lukewarm spray. Eliot’s slack face gaped at him, wet hair falling into his eyes. Oh, yes. This was more like it. “Use your hand,” Quentin said. “And let me look at your face.”

“All right—”

“And don’t talk. Please.”

Quentin had barely been hard but now he was aching at the sight of Eliot’s eyes, the elegant slope of his shoulders. He took Quentin into his hand and stroked him quickly, and Quentin did his best to ignore that it felt nothing like Eliot at all. Quentin came quickly, almost lazily, unblinking and drinking in every line of Eliot’s face. And when it was finished Quentin fought the urge to curl up on the wet porcelain at Eliot’s feet, never move again.

There was no relief to be found, no blissful lifting of the weight upon his shoulders nor his heart. Shame now, only quiet shame. Eliot’s eyes shifting under the illusion, the spell nearly breaking, blurry at the edges like television static.

“I should go,” Quentin wrenched the curtain open with shaking fingers, the shower still running, his knees growing weaker by the second. “I should… I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Somewhere between the water shutting off and Eliot’s mouth protesting with someone else’s voice, Quentin toweled off and dressed, his shirt half-open and his wet hair dripping down onto the collar of his jacket. Eliot’s face watched him and Quentin thrummed with a sickening guilt. Eliot’s hand reached for him and Quentin wrenched away, fumbled his way out of the bathroom, somehow made it to the front door of the apartment in the dark.

All but running from the apartment, down twisting flights of stairs, out into the night. A stranger’s come running from his body and down the back of his leg. The dark sky held no moon and Quentin walked without direction, the water running down the back of his neck making him shiver.

He told himself he’d never do that kind of magic again. Now he remembered why. Quentin buried his face in his hands. He wanted to scream but was certain if he started he’d never be able to stop. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Quentin slumped down against the nearest building as he fished it out.

A text from Julia, _Where are you? Call me._

Quentin started pecking out a reply, but before he could hit send the phone came to life with an incoming call. “Not even gonna give me a chance to reply?”

“It’s three in the morning, Q,” Julia said.

“I’m on my way home, okay? Just go get some rest.”

“You just disappeared. Where did you go?”

“I just needed to get some air.”

“Q.”

Quentin sighed. “Please don’t do this now, Jules.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Quentin shut his eyes, could see nothing but Eliot’s face. “Don’t worry about me, okay?”

“Just tell me where you are.”

“I don’t know. Not far.”

“Q, come on…”

Quentin choked back a sudden well of emotion. “I just needed to… feel him again.”

“I don’t understand. Q, talk to me...”

Quentin sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. I’m on my way. Promise.”

Quentin ended the call before she could protest, powered his phone down and shoved it into his pocket. He leaned his head back against the cold stone of the building, turned his face to the dark sky. Quentin thought of home, thought of Fillory. Light seeping in around the cracks of the cottage door. Eliot’s warm body in the bed beside him.

_Home,_ he thought, _home,_ and willed his body to move.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you rewatch 2x05 after 4x10. This current arc is just so sad that I... had to make it sadder? Q is just very sad and I am sad and I need the show to give him his husband back immediately.


End file.
